I fucking hate that her voice still has that effect on me. I shove it down, forcing myself to listen, to remember what she did.
And when it’s over, silence lingers in the air. Theo stares down at the darkened screen, his face twisted. “I can’t let this go. He deserved better than that. Can you?”
“Then we’ll find her.” Oscar’s face is dark. “We’ll get the answers.”
Max presses his lips together, but he nods.
When they look at me, I hesitate. “I still don’t think this is healthy. But I’ll stand with you.”
Because it’s clear that this is eating Theo up. He’ll never move on while he’s drowning in the unknown of Brett’s death.
Maybe we’ll be able to finally move on, to focus on our pack, on our future.
A future that no longer includes Kennedy Traylor.
Kennedy
The morning sun is already savage as I head down the mountain on my bike.
I slept too long, and now I’m paying the price for it. I can feel the skin on my scalp burning, and I curse myself for forgetting to put on a cap before I left. My stomach growls, and I slow to a stop in a cooler spot amongst the trees, pulling Rick’s shitty sandwich from my pocket.
Truth be told, I’m delaying. Putting off the moment when I have to face anyone.
I haven’t been into town for months. I’ve cycled through, my head down, but I haven’t set foot on the ground since—
Breathe.
Fucking Rick. Although this situation isn’t really his fault. Charles Rivers cutting his hours has nothing to do with his ability to work.
No. It’s a giant message to me.
Leave. Get out.
Clearly the timeline I’m on isn’t enough for him.
Maybe I should just issue a giant apology to everyone at once. Hire a plane to fly over the town with one of those banners.
Sorry I’m not dying quick enough.
The crappy sandwich is enough to ease off the biting hunger. My appetite is sinking by the day. I take my time with my water, sipping until I can’t put it off any longer.
For once, I actually pay attention as I slowly cycle into town. Widow’s Peak is basically one main high street that breaks off into a handful of small affluent residential streets. The further you get up the mountain, the cheaper the rates.
It’s still a good twenty years behind most of civilization, but I used to like the vibe here. The neat row of shops is each painted a different color and hawks anything from locally-made beers to handmade chocolate. The bakery opens before dawn and sells out before two every day. Dotted between are the places for people to hire equipment – mountain climbing, trail walks, even skiing in the winter months.
I let myself slow down. To lift my face and actually take it in as I make my way toward the diner. Mick’s battered-looking Stardust Diner was originally a cool homage to eighties music, but now it’s held together by peeling paint and a prayer, the place looking untidy compared to the clean buildings around it. But everyone in town under the age of eighty still gathers here for their meet-ups.
It's the worst fucking place to work if I want to stay under the radar, but there’s not a chance in hell of anyone else taking me on. My throat tightens as I pull the bike up to a rack outside and dig for my lock. Thankfully, there’s nobody around, and I duck down to at least try to hide my face as I push the door open.
They don’t properly open for another hour. I swallow the dust in my throat, my call croaky. “Mick?”
“Comin’!”
I loiter close to the door. It hasn’t changed in years, and certainly not in six months. Black and white linoleum stretches the length of the place up to the counter at the end, an aluminum bar with tall backless red and silver stools lined up in front of it. They match the battered red leather booths that sit on either side of me as I slowly make my way up to the counter to wait, passing the old but beloved jukebox against the wall on my right.
This place is full of memories.
It doesn’t take long. He comes backing out of the kitchen door, a heavy-looking crate in his hands, and I jump up to hold it open.
